


Blutet leise in das Meer

by Soronya



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Blood, But more hurt than comfort, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Graphic Description of Self-Harm, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25899019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soronya/pseuds/Soronya
Summary: Richard feels like he's all alone and nobody understands him. His life is miserable; worthless, even. He seeks a way to deal with his emotions, but chooses the wrong path.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe & Paul Landers
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Blutet leise in das Meer

**Author's Note:**

> I am back with another Rammstein fic!  
> This one is very dark and I apologise for it, but months ago I had a very bad day and needed to get those feelings out of my system.  
> The title is a line from the song "Reise, Reise" by Rammstein and can be translated to "Bleeding into the sea".  
> Thank you so much, [Nikki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikoNotHere), for beta-ing this for me! It really helped me a lot to improve the quality of this story!

It’s dark outside but the lights illuminate the streets, painting the city in unpleasant yellow and orange. So much brightness at this time of the day feels wrong; the bustle of the traffic is annoying and gives me a headache.

I wish I could escape all the noises and visual expressions, but the silence in my bedroom is equally overwhelming and the darkness makes me see monsters that are all in my head. My inner demons are less dangerous when my eyes are open and my ears perceive other sounds than my silent cries for help.

The roof terrace of my apartment lies far above the streets and everything down there seems so small and indifferent from here-- everything but my own emotions. They haunt me. No matter how high I climb or how fast I go, I can never escape them.

The alcohol dulls the pain in my chest, lifts the heavy rock that constantly seems to lie on it. But for quite some time it hasn’t been enough anymore to stifle the voices that keep telling me I wasn’t good enough.

My glass of booze is almost empty again and as I want to refill it, I realise I already drank the whole bottle. I clench my fists to stop my hands from shaking, feeling helplessness bubbling up inside of me that quickly turns into anger.

There’s nothing worse than this feeling – the feeling of not being good enough, of not knowing how to go on, of not knowing how to make it through another day. I don’t know how to communicate those emotions, how to deal with them, and I am not sure whether I will survive them.

The voices inside of me feel like parasites that slowly eat up the host’s body until nothing is left and they will only die once their victim is deceased. Sometimes I wished I could just stop existing. I don’t want to actively die, but I wouldn’t mind not living anymore. The indifference doesn’t make any sense, but my emotions don’t care about logic.

I want to scream, but only a weak exhale escapes my lips as I take the glass into my hand and throw it onto the floor, where it shatters into thousands of pieces. My gut clenches as I sink onto my knees, having trouble breathing in. I feel nauseated, my mouth is dry and I just want to puke.

I want to get out all the venom that runs through my body – the venom I keep producing myself and I don’t know how to stop doing that. My hand automatically grabs a handful of shards, carefully lifting them and bringing them up close to my face.

I look at them in awe, watch how the light breaks on the edges and makes the glass look like it’s actually of worth when it’s nothing but trash. Nothing but a shiny coat around an empty shell and so similar to how I feel.

The darkness inside of me is swelling, and sometimes I wish it would eat anyone else than me; that it’d turn into a real monster and would kill people, spreading grief and horror along its way. At least then people would realise something was off.

Right now, people just try to tell me to cheer up, to get it together. They just don’t understand and on the one hand, I am happy about it. I wouldn’t want anyone else to be like me, to have this darkness and fear as a constant companion. But on the other hand, I just don’t want to be alone in this.

And yet I don’t know how to cry for help in a language that anyone would understand. I feel like I am a foreigner among the people I know, and whenever someone looks at me, I become invisible. Whenever someone talks to me, we suddenly speak different languages. When someone touches me, their hands turn my skin into stone.

How can it be possible to be so empty, to be hungry without feeling an appetite, to be thirsty although I can’t stop drinking? There’s this dull ache in me, the sensation of being numb; and yet, so many emotions boil inside of me, never able to break through.

I take one glass shard in between my fingers and let it run over my arm. It doesn’t break the skin but the thought of that is tempting. Experiencing another kind of pain, making sure to silence the creatures inside of me for just a few minutes.

The alcohol, even the cocaine, it’s all useless. The effect of both fades way too quickly, making the following days only worse. But sweet, honest pain will not deceive me. It won’t tell me pretty lies about how good the world could be. It won’t dull my senses and whisper sweet nothings into my ear.

The pain will be sharp. Plain. Simple and candid. I will not suffer from withdrawal, though I already fear it’ll end in another addiction I might not be able to escape from. But if it helps me now, if it covers the ache in my chest, it might be worth the risk.

I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I can’t help myself. There’s no rationality left inside of me. No reason why not to do it. No angel that comes to my rescue in these times of need. And maybe the pain is the only angel that might be of any help right now: an angel of death in the long run, but it still has its wings and a halo.

For a moment, I hesitate. If I start now, who knows whether I can ever stop again? But my curiosity wins.

The shard feels cool against my skin, but only for a short moment, before the hot and piercing pain spreads from the wound throughout my arm. Blood trickles out of the cut, a line that gets thicker with every second that flies by.

Adrenaline starts filling my veins, excitement about the unknown sensation chases off the monsters in my head. Immediately, I want to do it again. Want to watch in awe how the pain emerges and fades into a dull ache as the blood drips onto the floor.

The second cut is much less hesitant. However, the pain is the same and it feels oddly satisfying. It shouldn’t be like this; I know that. Deep down I know this is utterly wrong. But what is actually right and what is wrong, anyway? Who cares about that? Who is allowed to judge me in the end but myself?

The third cut finally silences the voices in my head, hushing the questions. Some kind of weird peace starts to fill my body, a kind of peace I haven’t felt for a long time and that I know won’t stay forever. It will fade eventually, will bring back the demons requesting more and bigger sacrifices than this.

The blood is painting my arm red, showing battle marks from a war I fight with no one but myself. I made sure to cut deeply, to push the glass shard as hard as possible into my skin, to hurt myself as much as I am capable of. The floor to my knees gets wet as the blood drips from my arm onto the tiles, creating a morbid artwork right on my roof terrace.

It’s peaceful to watch the drops falling – clinging onto my skin before they get too heavy and land on the floor, splattering into all directions. The mesmerizing continuity of it is enough to keep me from thinking and I realise I am able to breathe again.

I start to become dizzy after a while as the blood on the wounds starts to coagulate. If that is the short moment of rest I can get out of it, it’s quite disappointing. The frustration, sadness and self-hate become prominent again, together with guilt and shame. 

The shame is the worst. I had felt it after drinking heavily to forget for the first time and it was even bigger after my first dose of cocaine. But now it seems to become bigger and bigger and I am afraid it would swallow me down completely.

Sudden fear washes over me. Fear and the knowledge of having done something extremely stupid. The anxiety and guilt start to boil over, my gut is twisting and I want to throw up, but my stomach is empty. I feel how I am no longer able to breathe, how loud bells ring in my ears and my vision turns white.

The feeling of suffocation is overwhelming and the fear of dying overruns me, hits me like a truck and I am sure that I won’t wake up if I close my eyes now. It sounds tempting, but the survival instincts kick in, reminding my muscles how to inhale before I pass out.

Suddenly, I feel arms around me. Strong arms that pick me up from the floor, carry me over to a chair and help me sit down. Warm hands are put onto my cheeks, forcing my head up and I look into concerned blue eyes.

“Breathe with me,” a soft voice requests in a tone that doesn’t allow any backtalk. I am in no condition to decline, so I listen to the words and quiet instructions he gives me. Eventually, I realise that my heartbeat slows down again and my breath begins to even.

Paul kneels in front of me, his trousers and shirt covered in my blood, his face full of worry and sorrows. And then I understand he’s worried about me.

“Paul, I–” I start, wanting to explain myself, wanting to make it look harmless. My voice is hoarse and rough and I struggle to find the right words, but before I can say something else, he just shakes his head.

“No need for words,” he tells me, forcing a sad smile onto his lips, obviously trying to make me feel better. “Your actions are loud enough.”

I swallow, feeling a lump in my throat. He looks at me and I wait for him to become judgemental, to tell me how stupid I am, how useless I am, but those words never come. He simply pulls me into a tight hug, careful not to touch my injured arm and I don’t know how to react.

It’s overwhelming and not comprehensible for me, why he doesn’t push me away at my deepest point. I feel like I don’t deserve this. I shouldn’t be allowed to be in his arms right now. Smeared with blood and broken, inside and outside.

“Richard,” he whispers into my ear. “I am going to hold you. I am not going to let you go. We’re going to make things okay. We’re going to find you help. I don’t want to lose you. And I am not going to lose you.”

And for the first time in years, I feel tears burning in my eyes. I try to stop them, but they find their way down my cheeks and get caught in Paul’s shirt, soaking it. They stream down my face like a river of sadness and I can’t hold either them or the sobbing that escapes my lips back.

Paul doesn’t withdraw from the embrace as I cry, my head buried on his shoulder. If possible, he pulls me even closer to himself and runs his hand over my back while humming a soothing melody and I hold onto him as a drowning man would clutch at a straw.

It takes time before the storm that rages over me calms down, but eventually, the tears run dry. Yet, I don’t let go of Paul, who is like an anchor on the high and troublesome sea, keeping me safe. 

I know this fight is long not over. I know I will struggle a lot. But I just understood I am not alone.

And if I am not alone, maybe there is hope out there.

Even for me.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time! Kudos and comments are, as always, greatly appreciated ♥


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